by Josh Lanyon
A warrant. Now that was interesting.
Jason said, “We’re just here to ask a few questions, ma’am. We understand that you and Boz are friends. Maybe more than friends.”
She was not exactly beautiful. Her eyes were oddly slanted and her high Slavic cheekbones were a little too sharp, but she was striking. Put her in a top hat and black sequins, and she’d be mesmerizing. Way out of Boz’s class, goats and ponies notwithstanding.
Diamond said, “We know each other.”
Jason smiled. “It’s a little more than that, isn’t it?” He felt Dreyfus’ look of surprise.
Diamond’s eyes narrowed. “Says who?”
You just did. But Jason only smiled again.
Diamond’s hair was severely straight and reached all the way to her waist. It reminded him of a horse’s tail, and when she tossed her head, the equine resemblance was even greater. “Well, what of it? That was over a long time ago.”
“Maybe so,” Jason said. “But you’re in the business of rescue and rehabilitation, so we have to ask.”
Diamond laughed. She mimicked, “Maybe so, but I draw the line at big, dumb animals that forge checks.”
“That’ll put a strain on a friendship.”
“Yes.”
“What else can you tell us about Boz?” Dreyfus asked.
Diamond regarded Dreyfus for a moment. “Do I know you?”
“No.” Dreyfus threw Jason a quick, uneasy look. “I don’t think so.”
“Funny. You look like a girl I used to know. Andy Alexander. She was part of a brother and sister act.”
“I was never part of any magic act.” Dreyfus sounded mildly outraged. “Can you please just answer the question?”
Diamond shrugged. “Anyway, I can tell you this. The forged checks were a long time ago. Boz isn’t— He didn’t have anything to do with the theft of Mike Khan’s collection.”
Jason said, “What makes you say that?”
“Minerva Khan. She’s the one you want to look at.”
“Minerva? She seems to have a pretty solid alibi. Performing her act in front of almost five hundred people at a private company function.”
“Things are not always what they seem.”
“Now there speaks a magician.”
Diamond said, “I don’t blame Minerva. Khan was a piece of work.”
Dreyfus said, “You believe Minerva Khan is behind the death of her husband?”
Diamond looked startled. “I didn’t mean that. No. Minerva isn’t a murderess. I meant I don’t blame her for orchestrating the theft of that collection. From one perspective, the collection was half hers. She’s the one who really supported them for the past ten years. But Wyoming isn’t a community-property state. Also, the legal ownership of a number of items in the collection is in question. The one area where Khan really was a magician was in finagling the books. There’s a reason he was known as the Kubla Con.”
“You’re speaking from experience?” Jason asked.
“Yes. I am. Not mine, though. Boz’s. Among others within the community.”
“It’s interesting you say this,” Jason said. “Everyone else, including Boz, has suggested Khan orchestrated the theft of his collection.”
Her brows rose, but it was polite inquiry, not surprise. She was not at all surprised.
“Maybe Boz already told you that,” Jason said. “When was the last time you saw him?”
“Who? Khan or Boz?”
Jason said, “Both.”
“It’s a long time since I’ve seen Michael Khan. Months at least.” She squinted thoughtfully. “Boz? I’m not sure. Last week, I think.”
“At the memorial Friday night?” Jason suggested.
He could tell by her eyes he’d scored, but he was unclear how or why.
“I don’t remember if he was there for the entire service. People came and went.”
“But he was there for part of the service?”
“I don’t remember. It was a difficult night for me. Mateo was not young, but…even so.”
The name rang a bell, though Jason couldn’t quite place it. “Mateo?”
She combed her hair out of her face. “Mateo Santos. He is—was—the most highly regarded close-up magician in the entire Western United States.” Her voice was cool, but Jason didn’t think he had imagined the flash of pain when she’d first mentioned Mateo’s name.
“Close-up magician?” Dreyfus questioned.
Jason said, “Table magic. Magic performed right there with the audience standing around you. Sleight-of-hand, misdirection, cardistry.”
“He was so much more than that,” Diamond said impatiently. “Mateo’s thoughts on the art were so…significant. So far beyond the rest of us. Not since the Professor, has anyone so profoundly understood the mysteries of both psyche and…spirit.” She turned away to wipe her eyes.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Jason said.
Diamond said in a suffocated voice, “Mateo’s death is everyone’s loss. Everyone in this community.”
Dreyfus had an odd expression on her face.
“Who else attended the memorial service on Friday?” Jason asked.
“Everyone.”
Patently not. She couldn’t recall if Boz had been there. Khan had been meeting with his agent. Minerva was performing at her corporate event.
“Was Terry Van der Beck there?”
“I’m sure he was.”
He believed her grief was genuine, but that she was perhaps playing up the extent of her distress. Diamond was a cool customer. She probably had a more accurate idea of who had attended the memorial service—and for how long—than she was letting on.
“Did either of the Khans stop by at any point during the evening?”
“No.”
“You said that you believe Minerva Khan is behind the theft of her husband’s art collection. Putting aside hocus-pocus for the moment, how do you think she could have managed that?”
Diamond’s expression was impassive. After a moment, she said, “I would imagine she hired someone. Or, more likely, she asked Ted Fields to hire someone. Ted is Minerva’s longtime manager—and current boyfriend.”
“Interesting.” Jason handed her his card. “If you can think of anything else that might be of help…”
She tucked the card away without comment.
Dreyfus said suddenly, “Why do you think there are so few female magicians?”
Diamond considered her for a thoughtful moment. “Men don’t like to be tricked by women.”
“Do they like to be tricked by other men?” Jason asked.
“They consider the risk to be part of their normal competitive dynamic.” She shrugged. “Just an opinion, of course.”
“One last thing,” Jason said. “If Ian Boz is not involved in Michael Khan’s death or the theft of the Khan collection, can you think of any reason he’d panic at the sight of federal agents on his doorstep?”
She made a sound that was disarmingly close to a groan. “God. Poor Boz.”
“Not following,” said Jason.
“Did you ever hear the story of a T-Rex named Sue and the Federal Government’s insane persecution of the paleontologists who uncovered the fossil?”
Jason winced. “Yes.”
“That’s why. Not everything in Boz’s shop is going to pass government inspection, if you get my drift. We’re not talking serious violations, but Boz is, I think understandably, paranoid.”
She turned at the sound of tires on dirt. A battered green pickup bounced down the pothole-riddled road and pulled into the nearby lot already occupied by horse trailers, a small moving van, and two old-fashioned red and gold circus train stock cars.
A slender, fair-haired man got out.
Jason shaded his eyes. “Is that Terry Van der Beck?”
Diamond’s expression softened. “Yes. Terry helps out with the animals. He has a wonderful energy. They love him.”
“Speaking of help, thank you for yours,�
� Dreyfus said.
Diamond didn’t reply.
“That was a waste of time,” Dreyfus said as they walked back to her Dodge sedan G-ride.
“Do you think so?” Jason was surprised.
“She tap-danced around every question. You’ll notice she blamed the theft on the one person who has a rock-solid alibi.”
“I did notice that.”
Terry stood beside his truck, watching them as they approached. When Jason’s eyes met his, Terry scowled.
“What’s his problem?” Dreyfus muttered when they were in the car and buckling up.
“Not sure.” He almost added, he seemed okay skulking around my house last night, but it wasn’t actually funny—plus he hadn’t mentioned his moonlight encounter with Terry to Dreyfus, though he wasn’t quite sure why.
Terry was still unmoving, still scowling as they got in their car and drove slowly past.
Chapter Sixteen
Ted Fields was with a client, but his secretary—a leggy nineteen-year-old who looked like her night job was Magician’s Assistant—insisted on ushering them into Fields’ office anyway.
“Ted, it’s the FBI!” she announced.
There were two men in the office. A blandly handsome, middle-aged blond sat in front of the desk, shuffling a deck of cards like some people unconsciously caressed rosaries. At the receptionist’s announcement the cards went flying up in a paper fountain—but then landed neatly back in his right hand. The man behind the desk—Ted Fields—was older, darker, and more dangerous-looking. He reminded Jason of Vegas crooners circa 1960s—the mob connected ones.
Fields sat back in his chair. “How can I help you, gentle— Oh.” His dark eyes popped. “Baby, what happened to you?”
Dreyfus did not like being called baby. She made like Wonder Woman with her badge. “Special Agent Dreyfus. This is Special Agent West. May we have a word, sir?”
Fields put up his hands, grinning. “Say no more, Officer. I have an alibi. You can talk freely in front of this gentleman.”
“An alibi for what?” Jason asked with interest.
“For anything you want to hang on me.” He put his hands down. “No, seriously. For Michael’s murder. Minerva and I were dining out Sunday night. We had reservations for eight o’clock at L’Osteria Mondello. We arrived early. After dinner we ran into friends and ended up staying until ten; then we went back to my place where we spent the rest of the night.”
That was nice and pat—as well as peculiarly light-hearted. He’d obviously been practicing.
Which didn’t change the fact that Khan had died around six o’clock on Sunday evening, so dinner at eight was not an alibi.
“Routt Sheriff’s Office is handling the investigation into Mr. Khan’s murder,” Dreyfus said. “At the behest of Cheyenne PD, Agent West and I are looking into the theft of Mr. Khan’s art collection on Friday evening.”
“I have an alibi for Friday too,” Fields said promptly. “I was watching Minerva perform at a corporate event held at Miller Insulation. Over five hundred people watched her show that night.”
Dreyfus opened her mouth, but Fields wasn’t done. “Anyway, that collection was—is—half Minerva’s.”
“We understand that ownership of the collection was a point of contention in the divorce.”
Fields made a sound of disgust. “Everything was a point of contention in that divorce. That was all due to Michael. He couldn’t stand the thought of losing his meal ticket. If Minerva had been killed, there would be no question of who was behind it. But Minerva had no reason to want Michael dead.”
Again, practice made perfect.
“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm Michael Khan?” Jason asked.
“Who didn’t?” the blond man with the deck of cards suddenly spoke up. “Anybody who knew him.”
“Sorry,” Jason said. “You are—”
“Douglas Devant. You may know me as Dyfan Disgleirio: Master Illusionist.” Devant did another of those quick waterfall cascades with the cards.
“Uh-huh,” Jason said. “Do you include yourself among people who wanted Khan dead?”
“I didn’t mean literally everyone wanted Khan dead. I didn’t like him, but I didn’t have anything to gain by his death—or to lose by his continuing to breathe.”
“What about Ian Boz?” Jason asked.
Devant and Fields looked at each other in alarm. Devant demanded, “What about him? Did something happen to Boz?”
“No. Would you include Ian Boz among those who wanted Michael Khan dead?”
“Oh. No. Of course not. Hell, Boz was pretty much Khan’s only friend. Boz is no killer.”
“Okay, well, that’s three down. Next best guess as to who in the magic community might want Khan out of the way?”
Devant looked thoughtful, but Fields said, “What kind of question is that?”
One that usually produced interesting answers. Not this time, though, and as much as Jason wanted to follow this line of inquiry, he was supposed to be investigating the art theft.
“Minerva seems to believe Boz may have colluded with Michael to fake the theft of the collection.”
Once more Fields and Devant exchanged looks. “I can’t see that,” Fields said. “I don’t want to contradict Minerva, but…”
Devant pulled a pocket watch out and exclaimed at the time. “Sorry, Ted. Officers. I have to run. I’m late for my audition.”
“Don’t be late for your audition,” Fields agreed quickly.
“One last question,” Jason asked. “Where were you Friday night?”
Devant stared at him, laughed, and walked out of the office.
“Seriously?” Dreyfus said.
“You’ll have to excuse Doug,” Fields said. “He gets nervous before an audition.”
Devant had not presented like a guy with a nervous bone in his entire body, but Jason let it go. He thought Devant’s reactions had been interesting throughout the short interview. “What’s his act?”
“Doug’s an old-school illusionist. Did you ever hear of Harry Blackstone—Senior, I mean.”
“Sure.”
“Really?” Fields looked surprised.
Jason nodded. “The Great Blackstone. Yes.”
“Well, Doug modeled himself on Blackstone. He does the whole white tie and tails bit, and he even performs a lot of Blackstone’s routines. The Kellar Levitation, sawing a lady in half, that kind of thing. And then stuff for the kiddies too. Pulling rabbits out of hats and bouquets from under tables. Very classy. Very traditional. He does a terrific version of the Floating Light Bulb.”
Dreyfus murmured, “The Floating Light Bulb?”
“Right. It’s the trick that made Blackstone famous. He invented it. In the trick, the magician takes a glowing light bulb from a lamp and makes it float around the stage and through a hoop. Then the lamp itself floats out over the heads of the audience. It’s still a terrific gag, even after all this time.”
“How does it work?” Dreyfus asked.
Fields gave an exaggerated shrug. “Magic.”
Jason sighed. “Any idea of where Devant was on Friday?”
“He’d have been at the memorial for Santos. Doug was a huge admirer of Santos.”
Fields had plenty more to say, mostly about what a wonderful thing the magic convention was going to be for Cheyenne magicians and the magic community, and mostly not useful. He did offer Dreyfus and Jason tickets to the sold-out Friday night opening of Top Hat White Rabbit.
“No thank you,” Dreyfus said firmly.
Fields handed the tickets to Jason. “Bring a date.”
“You know he just bribed you,” Dreyfus said as they left Fields’ office.
“I really do want to go to that opening,” Jason said.
“That makes it worse.”
“No, I mean, I want to attend that show in an official capacity. I said before, I don’t think the timing of the convention and the murder of Michael Khan—and theft of his collec
tion—are coincidental.”
They walked around the building to the parking lot in the back and found Doug Devant leaning against Dreyfus’ car. He was still shuffling his cards, but he snapped them together and dropped them into his pocket as Jason and Dreyfus approached.
“Aren’t you going to miss your audition?” Jason asked.
Devant nodded as though awarding Jason a point. “They’ll wait for me. It’s a formality anyway. She’s got the job. I wanted a word with you two.”
The penny dropped. Jason had thought the name Doug Devant sounded familiar. “You own the club where Friday’s magic show is taking place. Top Hat White Rabbit.”
“That’s right.”
“What is it you want to tell us?”
“I have no idea who killed Michael Khan. Khan was no loss to the magic community—or any other community. Most of his collection was built by screwing other people over. He bought posters and props from other collectors and never paid for them. He outright stole my Floating Light Bulb—stole it from my dressing room! I wouldn’t sell, so he stole it. It was one of Blackstone’s original bulbs, and Khan used it in that goddamned show of his where he ruins magic for everyone by showing the audience how the trick is done.”
“That would be pretty upsetting,” Jason said.
“How is it done?” Dreyfus asked.
Devant threw her a distracted look. “Magic.” He said to Jason, “You have no idea. And that trick was licensed, by the way. Competition plays a big role in the magic community. Frankly, thievery is rife, but stealing a guy’s magic light bulb, that’s a whole new level of scumbag. So as far as Khan is concerned, good riddance to bad magic. But.”
Devant seemed to need a moment to compose himself. “But,” he repeated, “Khan may not be the only one.”
“The only one what?” Dreyfus inquired.
“The only dead magician.”
After a moment, Jason said, “Go on.”
“The magic community is so damned secretive, so unless someone was paying close attention… That memorial for Mateo Santos?”
“Yes?”
“I just wonder if anyone has bothered to actually look into Santos’ death.”
“Was there something strange about it?”
“You mean other than the fact that he would never have committed suicide in a million years?”